


with you

by 24ko



Series: mcgenji au week 2018 [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Dragon Genji Shimada, M/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-06-07 21:01:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15227802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/24ko/pseuds/24ko
Summary: For the first time in a long time, he don't know what the name of the game is. But maybe he's a fool himself. An old fool-in-the-making. Ma had always warned him'n his fool ass had never listened, and now lookit where he's landed himself. McCree, you god-damn absolute fool.





	with you

**Author's Note:**

> for mcgenji au week - fantasy/supernatural. no beta, and my interpretation kinda ran away from me. writing 1) fic, 2) overwatch, 3) fantasy/supernatural, and 4) all for a ship week is all very new to me. so thank you for reading!

" _It's that McCree boy._ "

His name precedes him. He remembers the hush that fell over his old town's central plaza when he came'n tipped his hat all polite like, at least he thought so, the last time he showed his face. The townspeople were like vultures, with their eyes, the full weight of them on his back alone, enough to make him break into sweat. It wasn't the attention that was off-putting. He wondered if it was like that when it was jus' him'n Ma. If maybe it was always like this, or maybe if comin' back alone and grown made the burden feel different. Jesus, it really was a relief to leave once'n for all. Ain't no one treat him or his kin right in that godforsaken hell space.

With every mile he put between him and Santa Fe, McCree told himself there's more out West he's lookin' for. He'd heard stories from some old fools misfortunate enough to cross his path on his travels, right before he swindled them out of a few dusty coins, rotting gold fillings, and sometimes a vibrant sea glass that he can't seem to break. The promise of gold; of proving himself to some ghouls of the past; of living off the fatta the lan'. But maybe he's a fool himself. An old fool-in-the-making.

This summer marks two years now since he left Santa Fe for good, but he don't feel any closer to what he's lookin' for. Of course, it'd be good if he knew exactly what that was in the first place.

At present, there's a new place he's haunting.

It's hidden in plain sight: a decrepit-lookin' thing, a building, the only one in the area left standing, if you could call it that. Jus' lookin' at it for more'n a minute at a time makes his eyeballs itch and ache like he's somehow got a splinter in 'em. When he takes a step, he don't know that the creak is the moldy planks makin' up the floor or the ache in his muscles, the ache deep in his bones. He reckons it's the latter, just to err on the side of caution. Those sorenesses, those're far more concerning to him, n'after every con he pulls, he comes back to squat in his shitty li'l glorified, well, shit house. He swears to God that's what it is. The stench is enough to keep both the living and the dead out, no problem. That's to his benefit 'cause it means ain't no weak man gonna barge in demanding his coin back. Ma di'n't raise him all by her lonesome for him to start bellyachin' about somethin' as small as a bad smell, so he counts his blessings. But what a building like this is doin' with a hastily-dug, it looked like, underground space leadin' to nowhere... unless it was a hiding place for similarly-minded conmen of the past, McCree doesn't let himself think about the origins of that hole for too long. He's been tellin' himself what with all the junk down there, not limited to leftover lumber and broken bottles of spirits, it's jus' storage space.

With today's haul McCree's almost got enough to move further West. He ain't ever been to any ocean before, but he can feel the salty ocean spray on his face, taste it on his tongue. It's not like he's looking to make a permanent residence where he reaches the ocean, but wouldn't the sight of it just be  _somethin'_? An' maybe he'll find some sea glass of his own instead of adding to his "sea glass chiseled from toothless old fools" collection? Wouldn't that be just fine.

McCree relaxes on a wobbly stool that's still probably stronger'n the building's whole structure and leans his back against the wall closest to the hidey-hole. Minus the sweltering residual heat from the day's sun and the waning light through the shitty crevices up top... it's evenings like this, where the sky is streaked with gold and magenta and a deep velvety blue, with the first few stars playin' peekaboo behind the passing multitude of thick clouds that get him all nostalgic. He remembers a chill and goosebumps; the twang of a crappy guitar tuned wrong; how four strings, three full bellies, two voices, and one crackling fire sound. How tight his chest felt and how he couldn't put in words how bad the situation was, but how the company that kept him around made everything feel okay.

He wakes to the sound of aggravated rain, like a waterfall of marbles pouring onto the roof. Distracting as that is, he doesn't miss the sick squelching of boots in the mud nearby. Through the darkness of the shit house, out beyond the window, he sees a faint glow: a flicker of flimsy candlelight. Had to be in a lantern. And if he could see a candle in a lantern in a rain storm like this, his two eyeballs in the dark - it meant time to get in the hole. McCree and his fat pouch of today's earnings hit the floor and he drags his nails this way and that, willing them to catch on the loose plank leading to sanctuary.

The splinters lodged in his callouses are a minor price to pay when he uncovers the dirt hole, when he can  _just_  hear the hushed, judgmental murmur of predatory vigilante justice out the door. McCree, silently glad that he's just skin and bones, shimmies down the hole and replaces the plank easily. It almost makes him laugh: there's a big possibility they came to put him six feet under. But they can't do that. Not when he's already done it himself. Underground, the stench is acrid, is leagues more heinous. His eyes water. If a gun don't kill him, he's pretty god-damn sure this will do a good job, if not better.

It's been a few days since his last venture into the hole to hide his goods. On his knees now, he parts the small mound of dry earth he left over the goods he knows will be worth more than his hide.

There's no coins.

McCree thinks for a split second that maybe he's just mistaken one dirt mound for another. He scrabbles for another mound to no avail. There's nothin' left but shards of sea glass. Shards? McCree honest to God breaks out in goosebumps.The creakin' overhead has his gut threatening to near fall out his asshole and he holds his breath and presses his back hard against one of the walls of his earthy coffin. Right. For all the wit he's still got, it'd serve him better to think his way outta this situation than to look for meager riches and pray to a God he stopped believin' in too young. It'd serve him ev'n better if he thought fast - sittin' in a rottin' garbage hole ain't no way to pass the time unless a man was lookin' to abandon his dignity in filth. He rubs his forehead and wills any bright ideas to surface from the deeper pits of his mind.

No dice. Just a dirty forehead.

" _...can't've gone far... not here'n this storm..._ "

He didn't realize just how close they were.

It  _would_  be jus' his luck, wouldn't it, that the dry spell plaguin' the area all year gets broken by a spontaneous rain storm in the summer. His heart ricochets in the cavern of his chest. The longer the heavy rain falls, the longer they stay - the greater his chances of gettin' caught. In his anguish and frustration, McCree ignores the cool air at the back of his neck. All the useless junk down here and nothin' he can use to -

Cool air?

He turns to face the ugly piece of wood behind him, leanin' all casual-like against the wall, shielded by nondescript miscellany. In an effort to spend as little time in this hidey-hole as possible, to spend as little time as he possibly could thinkin' about the circumstances of the hole's existence...

He ain't about to start thinkin' too hard about this hole now. What's he got to lose? His life? He'd chuckle all grim if the situation allowed.

Still on his knees, McCree gets close enough to the wood to gingerly move it outta his way - and uncover a hole that, thankfully, he don't gotta shimmy through. But there's not gonna be enough room to cover his tracks. He takes a deep breath and starts crawlin'.

When he gets fed up with his hat disturbing the loose dirt over his head, he takes a short breather; his breathing's become increasingly short, ragged. Whether it's his nerves again, or maybe some science about holes and dirt and the health of a man, he don't know. The ground's been real level so far, so maybe this space here really was dug out by a fellow hornswoggler. Behind him, he hears the echo of a tell-tale crack. A heavy footfall through decaying wood. Once his pulse picks up again, McCree tugs his hat off his head and bites down on the brim and gets moving.

It's hard to ignore when the tunnel starts to narrow, and even harder when he picks up on the downward incline. McCree fancies himself an adventurer, mostly because that sounds a helluva lot more honorable and trustworthy than admitting he swindles people for a living, but in this moment... In this moment, his fear of the unknown and of the fate that awaits him rears its ugly face from the darkness up towards him. There's a tightness in his throat when he tries to swallow down the bile and retch that threatens to blow his cover and tip his location off to his pursuers. It's so bad, this feeling, that it almost helps him forget the horrible grittiness of the earth and rock under him. McCree's touched a lot of rocks and other miscellaneous detritus in his life, trading unskilled labor for pay and meals  _just_  a mite more reliable than preying on the weak-willed, the heavy-pocketed. But he ain't never touched rocks that're this sharp naturally. When he looks at his hand, there's spots of blood on his palms smaller'n the eyes on Ma's sewing needles. There shouldn't be earth that fine with any such penetrative capability here. Here, in this  _man-made tunnel_  that will lead him to  _freedom_. Emphasis his.

But he looks the other way in favor of living. Especially at the distinctive sound of gunshots - and at the equally distinctive reverb. A strong reverb, at that, or maybe it's just McCree's position in the tunnel, 'cause he swears that his whole perspective falters, the earth around him rumbles, and he sees multicolored spots. They swim in his vision, and they're not like anything he's seen before, but at the same time they're so familiar he can't put his finger on it.

" _Get yer skinny ass in there'n do as yer told!_ " The air is tense with what goes unsaid:  _Else, you get the same fate._

McCree gets his own skinny ass goin' again. He can't've gone more than two hundred feet, but it feels like more due to the struggle of forcing his body through an increasingly narrowing space. When he comes upon a pocket - and that's a huge understatement, it's a pocket big enough for him to freely sprawl across the cool, solid,  _level_  dirt and swallow down clean air - he near launches himself against the wall opposite from where he entered. More loose earth spills onto his shoulder when he tilts his head back and feels an uneven surface. This... there was a sinking feeling in his gut that no single man could've dug himself a whole stable burrow system. The shit house he was squatting in - for  _weeks_  now - didn't have near enough space for him sometimes - so it couldn't've been a team either. On top of that, he's worked long enough in a mine to know and  _feel_  that this... that this tunnel wasn't made conventionally. He ain't never had a clue. He was here, vulnerable more often than not, and he wasn't  _alone_. It's got him feelin' some type of way. Been feelin' lots of types of ways lately.

The weight of his gun at his right mirrors the weight of the - warming? - pouch on his left. McCree wills his right hand steady when he retrieves it. He's already steady, even if his heart threatens to burst out his chest. Then the tremors aren't his hand, it's not him. But it can't be Skinny there either, comin' for him'n all. Right?

McCree flattens himself as much as he can against the wall when Skinny's labored breathing gets clearer, gets closer. It's dark and he can't speak for others' eyes, but as far as he can tell, he's got the advantage. He's got it - until he doesn't.

The tremors get stronger and more frequent and McCree, he doesn't fancy himself religious folk, but he crosses himself an embarrassing amount of times and kisses his fingers - a worried rosary that's not there - a remnant of Ma's memory. It's gonna be another Lone Pine. If the stories are as bad as he's heard, this is it for him. Him and Skinny, that poor bastard. They were both gonna die anyway. Cause of death: a noble earthquake. He settles a hand on the crown of his hat and tilts it downwards o'er his face.

A cold rush of air bursts past'n nearly bowls McCree over. He's not sure how fast it rushes - it's deafening'n  _cold_  is his main observation, and his ears hurt somethin' awful. Nothin' in his life is comparable to whatever-the-hell that was. It di'n't feel earthly at all. Words escape him, but it's not like they'd do any good now - his throat aches with the sudden dryness in what was once the musty air of the burrow system.

McCree shivers, sets his hat right, then takes a bumblin' step forward while bracing himself with an arm against the nearest wall. The uneven pressure in his ears've fucked up his balance, and he don't hear a thing. Or maybe ain't nothin' to hear. Against his better judgment, McCree takes another step forward, in the direction of the hole he crawled out of, and swallows. Somethin' crunches under his foot, much like the first fallen leaves of autumn. His stomach lurches at the thought of what it could be, and he's glad for how waterlogged his hearing feels. He digs his nails into the earth above the hole, inhales deeply, dips his head low, and  _looks_.

It's cold.

 _Cold_  is different from the general coolness from when  _he_  was in that tunnel, where the only heat was coming off his body. No, now, when he reaches out'n touches the dirt, it's crunchy,  _icy_  like the layer of early morning frost he's wont to find when autumn bleeds into winter. It's like that, but not so much patchy - it's more consistent. And it's unnatural, is what it is, bizarre. He holds his revolver steady in front of him, his finger heavy but sure on the trigger. Like the circus man shoving his head between his lion's jaws, McCree pokes his head into the hole.

Where the tunnel bends slightly - and that last bend was the hardest for him to pass through - McCree hears a  _click_  and a crackle. He acts without thinkin' - shoots twice before he knows what he's shootin' at. His heart races but slows in relief not long after when a lone pistol slides towards him, its journey made much more easy by gravity'n lesser friction from the frosty dirt.

But the pistol is cold. Like ice, all over.

Before he gets a chance to think on it, somethin'  _slithers_  at him, fast, calculated. Like an overgrown snake. It gets him first'n not for the first time that day he thinks it's o'er'n he's a goner - the force of it is punishing. McCree lands hard on his back. He registers another sick crunch. He registers the weight of a body on him - heavy. Skinny?

"That was not nice," someone growls - purrs? - down at him. "Men like you crave violence. You think you can put a scratch on me?"

Whoever it is presses somethin' sharp against his throat and McCree gasps, tilts his head back to avoid contact. Skinny there, with the deceptive name, chuckles low'n pulls back his knife. The cold gun must've been to give McCree false fuckin' security. Figures. When nothing replaces the knife, they spend a few long seconds of silence, with Skinny's accomplices shoutin', hollerin' for him to pull McCree's body back up, or at least, whatever he's got on him and a souvenir. Even distracted by Skinny's presence, sitting on his belly and watching McCree like he's prey, like he's gonna toss the last of his pride and squirm and try to get away, McCree shudders. They're gonna -  _harvest_  him. He's seen that happen too often to men like him. That's why he ain't trust no man's sense of justice, no man's moral compass - it's not real here, where there's no law. If he's bein' honest, it's not real no-where.

"You smell like me," Skinny says after a torturous few seconds. The shouting in the space just under the shit house gets louder, more aggressive, but also more frantic. Maybe they're catchin' on that there's somethin' funny in this hole, too.

"Funny," McCree grits out, still refusing to validate Skinny as his captor. Still defiant. "I don't recall-" He doesn't get to finish. Skinny snatches his pouch right off his belt'n dumps its contents out to the side, unceremonious as all hell. McCree finally looks at him in disbelief - and disbelief is right. Skinny turns out to be shaped like a man, but even in the darkness of the underground, his skin is vibrant - shades of green, like a vast, lush grassfield. Verdant and full of life. But he catches some glittering, like copper'n gold carelessly tossed into a turbulent river - or maybe a sea. His mind, God bless it, puts it together then - the thin, rounded glass in his pouch. Warm against his hip. Calling.

At McCree's gawking, Skinny preens; his grin is slow and  _inhuman_ , like he learned from years of people-watchin' and still can't get it right. It's toothy. Wide, more like baring his teeth. Threatening. When Skinny tilts his head back, McCree takes notice of horns - long, branched. Curved enough to let him to move through tunnels unimpeded. The impatient twitch of an honest to God  _tail_  gets him scuttling back until he presses firm against the wall. Skinny is a real life  _demon_. McCree don't know what kinda demon contract they made to get him - hell, somewhere deep down it actually makes his sick heart swell that they  _needed_  a demon's touch to catch him, but - Ma had always warned him'n his fool ass had never listened, and now lookit where he's landed himself. McCree, you god-damn absolute fool.

But his hand don't shake, it don't waver, when he raises it and points his revolver level between Skinny's eyes. He's got four bullets. He's a good shot. The odds're in his favor.

"You might be fast, Skinny," McCree starts, tilting his chin up, narrowing his eyes. Skinny just watches him, stares down the barrel of his gun. He even  _mimics_  McCree by tilting his chin the same way - but on him, the action reminds McCree of a petulant child. Defiant. "But you ain't faster than a bullet."

Skinny closes the distance quick and easy, like it's nothin', like bein' that fast is in his nature - and for all McCree knows, it is. Skinny's  _clawed_  hand - Mary, Joseph, and  _Jesus_  he's got the equivalent of five god-damn fuckin' knives attached to his  _hand_ , it's part of him - closes around the barrel of his revolver, the muzzle pressed flush against the inner meat of his wrist. McCree shoots on instinct. He feels the raw power in the crack before he hears it, like some kinda holy bell that rings and clears the waterlogged feeling out his ears.

The first thing he hears with certainty is the dull thud of the bullet on soft earth.

The second is the crackle where Skinny squeezes the barrel he's been holdin', where the cold quickly spreads from out under his hand. McCree tries to jerk his hand back, gun included, but Skinny's grip holds strong. An overwhelming prickling assaults the bare skin of his right hand where he's still holding on. He hisses, loud, sharp, and finally tries to let go. He cannot. "What," McCree whispers, riskin' a look up at Skinny. "What did y'do?" He thinks Skinny's demonic face looks smug. In one smooth motion, he tugs hard on the gun - tears it right out of McCree's grip, like how a yell tears out his throat despite McCree's attempt to stifle it. "You are only human," he says, nonchalant, and tosses the weapon to the side like garbage. McCree squeezes his right hand between his knees, the fingers of his left tracing over what looks like a blister - ugly, where the gun was pressed hardest against the meat. Like his skin was boiled, but cold. Berry-red, numb, and useless when he needs some use out of it. Raw in patches where the cold clung hardest to his skin - skin still attached to his gun, out of reach. "I don't expect you to understand. But keep trying. It's..."

Delirium, is what it is. This ain't real. It can't be. If it were a real demon, McCree woulda been dead before he put his eyeballs on Skinny. He coulda been _dead_ at any time these past few weeks, but he - he was allowed to live, and for what purpose? For the first time in a long time, he don't know what the name of the game is. He watches Skinny's  _ears_ , long and skinny like no animal he's ever seen before. He hears them, too.

" _That McCree bastard's like a god-damn cockroach_!" Muffled by the distance, but closer than he's heard all day. They're comin'. But he's got other problems, he thinks. He's staring at one. Skinny finally figures out what he wants to say. "Continue trying to understand. It's endearing." His eyes reflect bright green in the darkness as he moves away, closer to that god-damn hole. But then he sees the pouch, with the sea glass strewn about. He'd been hasty in the few minutes of their confrontation, but now he takes his time. "You brought these pieces of me back, huh?"

McCree chooses not to answer so he can keep watchin' Skinny. Now that he's gone and confirmed that the pieces of sea glass are - were -  _parts_  of him, that he's let McCree live this long when any other creature or person would've snuffed his life out, he doesn't know what the game is. He's good at games. They bring him more profit than honest work does, what with how exploitative  _honesty_  is here. And if was gonna be profit and exploitation in any of his professional relationships, he was  _not_  gonna be on the receivin' end. The one clawed hand - one of two, of course, so that's a total of ten knife-equivalents, Christ - stretches out and down, awed, reverent, and McCree wants to think this is awfully narcissistic. But he keeps watchin' and ache and yearning bleeds from the gesture, washes o'er him, and he thinks he understands. Skinny don't move when he retrieves his hat'n puts it on. He don't say nothin' when McCree tugs the brim down low over his eyes'n turns his head away, neither. It's stupid, when it's dark like this, but McCree don't wanna interrupt a moment when he sees one.

Skinny regains composure shortly after and he makes to get back in the hole. McCree takes that as his cue to run like hell and not look back. But maybe the game is makin' him feel secure, givin' him a head start, and huntin' him down? Like with the pistol, earlier. But McCree, fool that he is, that he turned out to  _be_ \- they've gone this long. Living. Together. The uncertainty of trust is  _thrilling_ , and McCree _does_ fancy himself an adventurer. 

"Mc...Cree," Skinny calls to him as much as he experiments with the shape of McCree's name in his mouth. His eyes are wide, and the only reason McCree can tell is how the ghostly glow of his eyes gets that tiny bit bigger. "There is only one path. Follow it to the surface. And wait." Against his better judgment, again not for the first time that day, McCree waits with bated breath for more. It don't come.

"And you?" McCree watches Skinny, who blinks owlishly. He parrots him. "Men like  _that_  crave violence."

"Let them come." Skinny still watches for his next move, but he doesn't think it's out of wariness. McCree retrieves his revolver, but leaves the pouch and its contents. The tail -  _Skinny's tail_  - twitches again in his impatience. "Now, get  _your_  skinny ass in there and do as  _you're_  told."

Heat rushes over McCree's face when he realizes the smirk in Skinny's voice. If he wasn't so sure he'd die by claws clean through his chest, he'd give the bastard a shove. "What am I gonna wait for, huh? Why are you helpin' me?"

Now, Skinny turns his exposed back to McCree. Like he - trusts it to him, or somethin' like that. He's sure he's readin' too hard into it. His answer is simple: "So I can hear you call my name."

"Skinny," McCree says. He is at the same time confused and sure of himself. The response is soft, fierce, promising. If this is a game, he takes the risk.

Later, McCree will emerge from the burrow and welcome the cool summer rain and crisp air of the surface. The name is like the whispers of the North Wind in his mind, persistent and indicative of change, clinging fast to the crevices of his brain.

 _Genji_.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://magnetholic.tumblr.com) if you wanna @ me :+)


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